


We Belong Dead

by darkforetold



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will experiences the five stages of grief. Not because Hannibal is dead—because they <i>survived</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Denial

_My vision is blurred, I cannot see,  
Cannot see what lies ahead of me. _  
—Nitin Baros

His world came together in pieces. The dryness of his mouth, the way his eyes wouldn't focus. Will turned his head minutely, and vertigo roared up, making the room spin, forcing him to close his eyes. Crashing into the frigid water... it replayed over and over on the backs of his eyelids like a nightmare. He choked and coughed as if water had filled his mouth, nose, and lungs again. Opening eyes, trying to lift his head made it all worse. Vertigo slammed him back down, and he would've thrown up if his stomach hadn't been empty.

Then the pain started... it was dull, almost dreamlike, there but indefinable. He couldn't pinpoint its source, not yet, but it hurt enough that he let out a distressed noise. He focused on his aches and bruises, attempting to piece together what he thought might have been his last couple of hours. The Red Dragon... the knife to his face, his chest—pain throbbed from those wounds to remind him they were there. But there was more pain, nearing extreme, somewhere else... the lower half of him. His leg. He couldn't move one of them, and he opened his eyes to look down. Dizziness made him go still—and a touch to one of his legs made him jump.

Someone was with him.

He tried to focus on the blurry, shapeless form of a person. Blocky colors and half-realized pieces filled in its face, but there was no solidity, nothing his mind could grab onto. He opened his mouth to speak, and all that came out were broken syllables. His voice cracked, and he swallowed before trying again. "H-hello?"

The way his ghost moved, elegant, deadly... that smile...

"Hello, Will."

Reality punched his gut. Will turned his head away and groaned as nausea hit him. He'd know that voice anywhere, the exotic lilt that made his heart flutter and his stomach sick. The way he said his name—it both nourished the darker part of him and slowly strangled his humanity. 

Hannibal.

Will stared at the wall, then closed his eyes. _This is all just a horrible nightmare..._ Except the touch on his leg, gentle, so _Hannibal_ , felt entirely too real. 

Slowly, he opened his eyes, then turned his head. His head swam, and he fought against it, trying so desperately to focus on Hannibal's face. He was still there, a kaleidoscope of fuzzy colors and pieces, sitting at the end of... his bed. Looking like a glob of shapelessness, a monster. Will stared at him until his eyes took him in with chilling clarity, and Hannibal, patient Hannibal, waited until he could see all of him. Then Hannibal quirked his lips a degree, his version of a smile, and said, "I was worried you wouldn't come back to me."

He'd always come back to him, his heart supplied before his mind could stop it. Will let out a hiss of a breath, and shook Hannibal's touch off his leg. Unfazed, Hannibal put his hands elsewhere, away from him, and sat there quietly. Waiting. Will watched him as if Hannibal were a cobra ready to strike. Couldn't help but look at all of him. His face like unfeeling granite, cheekbones high, lips thin—no bruising, no cuts. The rest of him was the same; well-put together in a dark sweater that brought out his eyes, hair perfectly in place. No signs that he'd fallen from a cliff _whatsoever_. A dream then... there wasn't any other explanation. They had died in that fall, and Hannibal was haunting his nightmares. If there was a God, He was laughing.

But if they _had_ survived... Hannibal sat there, unmoving, _unscathed_. If there was a God, then the Devil was sitting next to him. Hannibal should've _died_ from the force of their impact, the rocks should've torn them to pieces. 

Hannibal smiled a shade more, in all his perfection.

So, Will laughed. Laughed at the absurdity, laughed that they were alive, breathing the same air. Laughed because he was living his nightmare all over again. _Delirious_ because of... _something_ coursing through his bloodstream. A tear slipped down his cheek, and when he looked, he found Hannibal watching him, his smile more pronounced. _Enjoying_ his fit of insanity. Fear set in as the prospect of reality—that they'd actually _survived_ —became clearer, more plausible. That he had to live through this again shook him to his core.

Will looked at him again, perfect, beautiful Hannibal, then away. "Am I... dreaming?"

"Do you want to be?"

_Yes._

"I tried to... kill you."

"I know, Will."

Those three words carried an unspoken promise of consequence, of punishment. Will searched his eyes, but they were unreadable. The smile was gone. His days were numbered. How many times could he betray Hannibal and _live_? 

Will let out a shaky breath. His eyes were unfocusing. He felt... incredibly calm, and his pain began to slip away. Painkillers. Soon, his world would begin to fall apart again, and this time, he'd welcome it. He closed his eyes for a second, to savor the floating sensation, before opening his eyes to find Hannibal. Still there, sitting beside him, with a loyalty he'd only seen Hannibal bestow on him. Perfectly whole... not a scratch or a hair out of place.

"Did you fly?"

His question sounded as delirious as he was. But Hannibal only spared him a barely there smile and said, "You must be referring to my otherwise miraculous condition." A breath and then... "No. And neither did you, Will."

Hannibal stretched out a hand and patted... something that echoed on contact. Vibrating down his leg and causing a quiet tremor of pain. Will tore his eyes away from Hannibal, to his... _cast_. A single broken bone that would render him immobile. Trapped.

Subjected to Hannibal's will.

"How?"

But he wasn't questioning his condition, just Hannibal's. Perfectly whole Hannibal. Uninjured. From a fall that should've killed them _both_.

"You threw yourself of a cliff, and me with you. You survived and so did I." That smile never left his face. "Do the how's and why's matter?"

They didn't. 

Will let his head fall back. The ceiling had beams, like some sort of... rustic log cabin. He concentrated on the knotted whorls as the scent of pine trees came in through the cracked-open window. The chilly breeze had gooseflesh bubbling up on his skin. "Where are we?"

"Somewhere safe and secluded, so you can recover."

"Somewhere we can't be found."

Hannibal propped his casted foot up with a pillow. "No one is looking for us, Will."

Will frowned. "Jack—"

"He has other things to worry about than chasing ghosts," Hannibal supplied. "His negligence has caught up to him. You saw to that."

Jack had a long list of infractions. Letting his deranged pet-project of a profiler take their most dangerous murderer to bait another one... not particularly wise of Jack, especially when the plan had been _full_ of flaws, assumptions, and blatant what ifs. Hannibal was right. Jack wouldn't be looking for them any time soon. 

But he grasped at straws anyway. "The rest of the FBI... they—"

"Chiyoh was kind enough to film the Red Dragon's demise for the FBI—"

"Why?"

Hannibal slipped him a glance. Being interrupted wasn't one of his favorite things. "Because I asked politely," he said, then added, "Your admirable attempt to rid the world of us was quite the spectacle to behold. Miss Lounds made sure the news of our murder/suicide spread like wildfire." Hannibal smiled again. "You should be proud."

The realization crushed his chest like a boulder might. Will licked his lips. "So..." He took a breath and let it out in degrees. "No one is coming for us."

"No." Hannibal tilted Will's chin up and looked into his eyes. Medically surveying, without warmth or intimacy. Will latched onto his touch regardless. "You'll be asleep soon," Hannibal said. "Your leg will heal, but it'll take weeks."

Will let out a hollow laugh. The drugs were finally dragging him down, down. "Weeks in seclusion with a cannibal... unable to move, let alone escape..." Will smiled up at him, but it was mirthless. "Sounds like a vacation."

Hannibal thinned his lips, but Will took further risks. "Is your... compassion for me still inconvenient?"

"Go to sleep, Will."

Will chuckled as Hannibal left and closed the door behind him. But none of this was humorous. He'd tried to kill Hannibal, and now, miraculously _alive_ , he was trapped alone in a cabin with him, in the middle of nowhere. For _weeks_. 

When he fell asleep, he dreamt of Hannibal... eating him piece by piece.

:::

Will opened his eyes to silvery light coming in through the window. Morning had come, and with it, dark clouds. The promise of rain filled his nose, and it was oddly cleansing. The woodsy smells, the pine trees... he would've felt at home with Molly, Walter, and their dogs if he hadn't known the truth.

If Hannibal wasn't somewhere in the same house.

For a while, he laid there and listened to the cabin groan and shift around him. His room was sparsely furnished, his bed tucked in the corner of two adjacent walls. The rug on the floor looked expensive, classic, and soft—a touch of elegance that married two entirely different worlds together; rustic and chic. Even Hannibal's hideaway places held an air of style and sophistication.

Style and sophistication he desperately needed to get away from.

Crutches had been left leaning against his bed. Will grabbed and positioned them securely, and for the first time, tried to stand on his own two feet. After a few failed attempts, pain beyond what he could handle, Will stood and looked out the window. A thick forest stared back at him, a small shed across from the house dwarfed by the size of the trees. They were utterly alone, secluded. Just like Hannibal wanted.

He hoped Chiyoh was still lurking somewhere.

The rest of the cabin was the same. Wood softened by handmade rugs and wildflowers in vases, a flair of elegance that disturbed as much as pleased him. The living room was the centerpiece of the home, an open space that spilled into the kitchen, where stainless steel countertops and appliances provided a startling contrast to the warm, inviting presence of knotted wood. The kitchen looked almost... surgical.

He turned away from it, wobbling unsure on his crutches. The inevitable fall happened in the living room, and he collapsed, broken, _hurting_ , on the couch. His first instinct was to call for Hannibal, but he kept his mouth iron shut. Clenched his teeth through the pain and closed his eyes. The Atlantic's angry waves came at him again, tore at him in his memories. He remembered pulling Hannibal closer to him as they fell, partly out of needing him, unable to let him go, but mostly to ensure Hannibal couldn't get away, that Hannibal would die with him.

But the waves hadn't torn at them like he'd hoped. The rocks like blades hadn't dismembered or left them unidentifiable. Fish hadn't eaten what was left of their shattered pieces.

They were alive. Breathing, and that sickened him.

Will looked down at his cast, his _shackle_ , and touched it like that'd somehow relieve the pain. While Hannibal had survived untouched, his leg had been broken—plausible, if it wasn't Hannibal's perfect design to have him immobile, practically depending on him. _Needing_ him. The chance of his broken bone having been inflicted _post-fall_...

He took in a fractured breath, waiting for the pain to die down. The latest issue of _TattleCrime_ caught his eye, and he grabbed it off the coffee table.

_**The Red Dragon Slain! ******_

_******Murder Husbands Take Lover's Leap! ******** ** _

The video of their demise could be watched on _TattleCrime_ 's website, it said. Shocking, tragic, romantic, Freddie had written. Will gritted his teeth as he leafed through it. Photos of his own funeral had made it to the fifth page, with Molly and Walter looking morose yet... somehow resigned, like they'd known his death had been coming. Their lives would be better, safer, without him. His and Molly's marriage had ended when she was laying in that hospital bed, he could see it in her eyes. He wished he'd said good-bye then. He would've apologized for spending their three years together living a lie. But he hadn't, and it was just another regret among many.

He tossed the paper back onto the coffee table, got up, and winced his way to the front door. Outside, he breathed in clean air. It was crisp and smelled of pine trees. He was reminded of home again. _God_ , he missed his dogs.

A gust of winter wind blew, and he shivered—but not because of the cold. Hannibal came out of the woods like a monster from his dreams, holding a rabbit by its feet in his gloved hands. Blood pitter-pattered onto the snow-dusted ground. Hannibal smiled. He was the cat that'd brought his owner a gift. 

Will had never liked cats.

"You're up and walking," Hannibal said. "Good."

He white-knuckled his crutches. Hannibal began tearing skin from flesh right in front of him, and Will looked toward the trees. He'd seen enough blood and violence to last a lifetime. 

"An odd thing to eat," he bit out, "A _rabbit_."

Hannibal smirked and looked over his shoulder, to the woods. "My supplies are low," he countered easily. Hannibal returned his eyes to him. "We'll have to make do."

"Not something you're used to... making do," Will said flatly, keeping him in the corner of his eye.

That same smile again. "Your poor attitude can be attributed to your condition," Hannibal announced. "Are you in pain?"

"No." _Lie_.

"Your state of being, then."

Will took a shallow breath. "Being stuck in the middle of nowhere with you isn't on the top of my fun list."

Hannibal trudged up the wooden steps with his butchered rabbit. He stopped next to him, too close, and Will held his breath. "You'll get used to it," brushed against his cold skin, and for the fraction of a second, he wanted to be closer to him. _Touching_. 

"Are you hungry?" 

That question wouldn't have been so seductive coming out of anyone but Hannibal Lecter. 

His breath came out shaky when Hannibal left his side and moved into the house. He trembled out in the cold for a moment before turning and following.

:::

Little had changed. Before the fall, they'd shared many meals together. Sometimes with guests, others alone, engaging in a bit of wordplay or pondering over existential questions. Then, he'd preferred the dinners they'd had alone, enjoying quality time with someone he'd considered the only true friend he'd ever had.

Now, Will sat at the dining room table, staring down at his plate. Wondering how quickly he could grab the fork and stick it in Hannibal's neck. Catty-corner to him, at the head of the table, Hannibal was none the wiser of his murderous plans, and if he was, he didn't show it. Hannibal commented on the finer details of the meal, but Will didn't care to hear him. He simply stared at his plate, considering the many ways a man could be gutted.

"Do you prefer your meal cold, Will?"

Will lifted his eyes. Hannibal was looking at him, expecting him to eat, to share a quiet meal with him as if Will hadn't tried to valiantly kill them, as if Hannibal, like the devil, hadn't risen from the ocean unscathed. He wondered if Hannibal was immortal—an immortal who was patient until someone didn't eat his food. 

He picked up his fork and knife under the pressure of Hannibal's subtle glare. The piece he'd cut off looked like art. Tasted exquisite as all of Hannibal's meals had. But chewing was more of a chore this time. Eating, breathing, existing with the man next to him was a Herculean labor.

Will put down his cutlery and sat back. He pushed his plate away to add to the sting. "A little too bland for my tastes."

Hannibal stopped chewing. Will didn't need to look to know that Hannibal's eyes were boring into his skull. There was no smile in his voice when he said, "I'm sorry to hear that, Will." A beat, then... "When you're well enough, we can restock on supplies... together."

"No."

"No?" Hannibal echoed. "Have you had a change of heart?"

"What we did together—"

"—was beautiful. You said so yourself."

"What we were together, what we did," Will grated out. He turned a glare on him. "It was _ugly_ , Hannibal."

Will struggled to his feet then, with his crutches, and wobbled out of the small dining room, across the living room, to the cabin's door. 

"Will..."

He opened it. A glacial wind sliced at his skin, and the dark, choking forest looked ominous, deadly. Surreal.

Like a dream.

Just a bad, horrible nightmare.

If he walked far enough, he'd wake up at home with Molly next to him, sweat pouring off him like it always did when he had nightmares. Hannibal would be dead. He'd have his dogs again, and he would watch Walter grow up without his biological instinct to kill. He'd be happy, and if he wasn't, it'd be better than this... hell.

This was all a dream—that was his theory.

His theory died with a bullet.

He stepped off the porch, and before his foot could touch down, the old wooden step exploded and splintered. He stepped on emptiness and tumbled into darkness. The impact of the ground, the agonizing pain... it brought into stark clarity that he was _alive_. They had survived that fall. His hell wasn't a dream but _reality_.

—and they weren't alone.

Out from the blackness of the trees, a pair of boots came toward him. Will squabbled at the ground uselessly, trying to focus on them, on anything but the pain. The question of friend or foe dizzied him, and he looked over his shoulder instinctively, looking, maybe, for help or answers. Hannibal stood there with a glass of wine in his hand. Sipping it much like he had when Hannibal had lain on the floor, his side gaping with a gunshot wound. His face was unreadable, his body language minimal. In his eyes, there was nothing. Hannibal looked at their visitor while Will struggled on the ground in pain.

"It's not safe to go walking at night, Will," a female's voice said. "Not in your condition."

Will saw Hannibal sip his wine before his world went black.


	2. Anger

_Anger is a killing thing._ —Louis L'Amour

The first time Chiyoh left her rifle unattended was the first time he thought about killing Hannibal. 

For two weeks, he stood at his bedroom window, pressing fingernail crescents into his palms, watching her make her rounds. Every day at dawn, like clockwork, she'd start her patrol at the small shed across from the house and go out into the forest. Hunting, tracking, watching him, he didn't know. He carved a hole into the windowsill with a paperclip he'd found until she came back, right in time for lunch. That was when she left her rifle unattended, at the tree stump next to the shed. He didn't care what she was doing in that shed, only that it took her five minutes to do it. Plenty of time to catch her unaware, take the rifle, and end his nightmare once and for all.

The same routine happened at night. Dusk. Patrol. Back at midnight and leaving the rifle like bait. If it was a ruse, a trap, so be it. Hannibal had made sure to dispose of anything he could weaponize. He lived in a world where mundane things—steak knives, scissors, blunt objects—didn't exist.

Nothing except that rifle.

At the beginning of the third week, he'd made sure to insult Hannibal's food just enough so they simply avoided each other. Once, he didn't see Hannibal for two whole days. It'd given him enough time to do a patrol of his own, to get into the shed and take stock of it. Tools, an old chair, blood-stained rugs—a shovel. He'd found a place to hide, and planned to use it the night he intended to murder Hannibal. 

Tonight was that night.

He squeezed himself into the shadows, closest to the shed door. He wasn't agile enough to do anything complicated, so he decided to keep it simple: hit her over the head with the shovel. Will clutched it in his hands, trying to keep his balance without his crutches. A gentle breeze would blow him over, but he was hopeful that getting rid of Chiyoh would be quick.

He held his breath when the door opened. Pretty, unaware Chiyoh came in just as he struck, dropping her hard to the cold ground. Quickly, he set aside the shovel and grabbed his crutches, went outside and looked toward the stump. The rifle lay there, waiting in all its glory. He didn't hesitate in grabbing it, trading the support of his crutches for its heft. He got low as he dared and used the stump as the gun's mount, lining up its sight with the house. The windows were unobstructed by curtains, and Hannibal sat on the living room's couch, wine in hand. 

A single bullet was all it would take.

Will put Hannibal in his crosshairs and fingered the trigger. Just a little more pressure would end Hannibal's life and his nightmare. His heart roared in his ears, and in the cold air, his palms were sweating. Time ticked by. In the living room, Hannibal sipped his wine, then leaned forward to reach for a book. He flipped through pages in his crosshairs, still upright, breathing, _alive_. After _everything_ Hannibal had done to him, Will hesitated. After convincing him he had encephalitis, corrupting him, sending the Red Dragon after his family, a part of him knew he couldn't live without him. There was no Will Graham without Hannibal Lecter. 

He pulled the trigger anyway.

The bullet exploded from the rifle, and his body jolted with the recoil. It was a relief, firing the gun, expelling his anger with deadly force. The window shattered, and the bullet missed Hannibal far and wide. Through his crosshairs, Hannibal was on the floor, peering over the couch's armrest, into the darkness. At him. Will pulled the rifle's bolt back and shot again, this time at his surgical kitchen, and Hannibal dove for cover. With a third bullet ready, he aimed—then whirled when he heard a twig snap. 

He saw the shovel before he blacked out.

:::

His awareness noticed the pain first. At the side of his head, running down his neck. It throbbed, hurt, but wasn't overwhelming, just there like a woodpecker burrowing a hole into his head. Over and over. Pick, pick, pick. He opened his eyes slowly. Soft light. A plate in front of him, filled with... oysters. Someone touched him, carding fingers through his hair. Only one person could have a touch so gentle, so inviting and so damning at the same time.

Hannibal.

Will whispered his name, but not out of reverence or need. Just a token to acknowledge his existence with an undercurrent of _please_. Hannibal slipped his fingers through his hair again, and Will, without thinking, leaned into it. He was warm, safe, _familiar_ , whispering to the dark side of him that needed him—and all he wanted to do was give in. Like fine wine or a luxurious meal, Will indulged and nuzzled into his hand. Hannibal swept a thumb over his cheek bone, once, twice, before he whispered:

"I knew you'd try to kill me if given the opportunity, Will."

He opened his eyes fully to take in Hannibal's face. The lines like granite rarely betrayed his motivations, his feelings, but his eyes did in soft, varying degrees. He'd learned to read them over the years, staring at him, contemplating. There was a note of sadness in them now. He and Hannibal—they'd experienced something... beautiful, breathtaking, and Will had ruined everything in his anger.

Hannibal stroked his cheek again. "Are you hungry?"

Will moved his eyes to the bit of food Hannibal offered in his fingers. An oyster, a sign that everything—them, whatever _this_ was between them—was over. He felt a stab to his chest for a second time.

He met Hannibal's eyes, glanced at his mouth, before taking in his face again. Whispered, "You're angry with me..." so quietly, he could barely hear himself.

"Because you've done what it is in your nature to do? Does God punish the bird that sings?"

Will closed his eyes. "Sometimes..."

Hannibal's lips brushed against his ear. "Eat, Will."

Will took in a breath and opened his eyes, to him, to the oyster in Hannibal's fingers. He'd sinned and needed to be saved, to do his penance. He'd never been a religious man, but he found that religion, that sense of belonging, of higher purpose, when Hannibal swept his thumb over his cheek. Benediction was in the way Hannibal fed the oyster to him, and Will dragged his lips over his fingers in reverence, confession—to bargain for his life.


	3. Bargaining

_Never trust a survivor until you find out what they did to stay alive._ —Kurt Vonnegut

Every morning, evening, and night, he ate oysters from Hannibal's fingers, drinking Marsala from a glass Hannibal held for him. The preparation for what would be his inevitable death and consumption... was an intimate courtship. The gentle touches Hannibal would spare him wasn't what made it intimate, but the active role Hannibal took in preparing him over that long, dark month. While Will bathed, Hannibal washed his hair for him, massaging his scalp, his fingers sliding down his throat, then up again, back into his hair—akin to a chef massaging butter into the skin of a chicken he'd eat later that night. Hannibal didn't allow him to do anything he'd consider stressful because, Will assumed, stress would make him taste bitter, not as sweet.

And Will let him. In his compliance, Will silently begged for his life, bargained for another chance. Not to save himself from death, because death would be a blessing, but to right the one wrong he simply couldn't live with—disappointing Hannibal. To atone for his sins, he let Hannibal feed him, wash him, touch him in ways he secretly wanted more of. He let himself be pulled back into Hannibal's orbit. Will no longer gave Hannibal short, curt responses, but engaged in long, deep therapeutical discussions. They pondered life, mulled over existentialism, and ate together like they used to.

It was only at night, after his... intimate dreams, that Will ever admitted he wanted what they were again.

And his dreams _were_ intimate. Every night, Will dreamt of straddling Hannibal's hips, savoring the heat he felt under him—while he wrapped his bare hands around his throat and _squeezed_. The flutter of his delicate pulse beneath his fingertips, Hannibal's fractured breaths, the way he'd look at him before his life slipped away... He woke up in his own sweat, gasping, _aroused_. As the month went on, as their daytime talks became more familiar, deeper, his dreams became, in a way, sexual.

The knife felt warm and comforting in his hand. Vivid and real as if he were awake. Hannibal breathed heavily, trembling under his touch. As the blade slipped across his throat, cutting skin like silk, that overwhelming pleasure of killing curled around his spine and shortchanged his lungs of air. He was dizzy with it, euphoric... Hannibal's blood poured over his neck, down to his chest, pale skin red... soft. Will reached out for him, to touch—

—and jerked awake in his bed, drenched in sweat. Panting and spent as if he'd had a wet dream. He found Hannibal watching from the doorway, his body language more... liquid, as if he'd enjoyed the display.

"Do you still dream of me, Will?"

They both knew he did.

"Yes," he whispered. "Of killing you with my bare hands."

_I still love you_ had never sounded so... sick.

After that, everything changed.

Will woke one night to a loud thump and a muffled scream. In the living room, a man, bound and gagged, lay on the floor with Hannibal standing over him. He gave Will an almost apologetic look and said, "I was famished." 

His smile was almost endearing. 

The sight of a would-be meal should've sickened him, but it didn't. His heart skipped a beat and he gripped his crutches until he lost blood in his fingers. Not in anger or disgust, but in _anticipation_. His body trembled with it, and Hannibal must've noticed because that devilish smile grew. He hadn't seen Hannibal so... passionate as when he picked the man up, and like a sack of potatoes, dumped him into the dining room chair. Hannibal looked at him immediately with so much hope in his eyes, it caused an ache to bloom in his chest. The man let out another muffled scream, and Hannibal silenced him with a knifepoint to his throat and a glare.

Will forgot how to breathe.

"Frank Arlon, pedophile in two states, Will." Hannibal offered it like a sacrifice.

Will closed his eyes and took a breath. Nothing would make him more sane, more himself than killing. Feeling blood splatter against his skin, watching it drip onto the floor—killing with Hannibal—was all he ever wanted. But the shred of humanity inside him, the part of him that made him different than Hannibal, the part he so desperately clung to—it screamed at him, urging him to turn around, go back to his room. Deny Hannibal. Deny _them_.

He squeezed the handles of his crutches and shifted to turn away. Away from what they were together.

"One of the boys looked like your son."

Hannibal was never one to lose.

Will stopped, glancing Hannibal's way. Down to the man quiet and held at knifepoint. If nothing else, he wanted to see the man's face. Why, he didn't know. But he didn't question himself, and with his crutches, he wobbled over, settling in next to Hannibal like it was comfortable, _normal_ for them to stand over a bound man together. The man's appearance didn't matter—average build, unremarkable face—but his eyes did. Hazel, dark with his guilty verdict and stories of children ruined by his hands. He could see their faces in his pupils, in the way the man hitched his breath and waited for death to come.

Hannibal's knife was in his hand before he could comprehend it. Like in his dream, it was warm and disturbing in its comfort; a pair of favorite shoes or jacket that fit just right. He could rid the world of a little evil with a single stroke and Hannibal at his side. Nothing sounded more perfect, more satisfying than that.

But he couldn't do it. No matter how hard he tried—envisioning those children's faces, Walter's—he couldn't seem to lift the knife and _cut_. His body began fighting the urge instead, physically by making him shake, his teeth clenched to near breaking, sweating... His breathing didn't come easily anymore, and he had to suck at air like a dying fish to fill his lungs. The murderer, that dark part of him, was losing...

Hannibal came to the rescue.

He slipped in behind him, warm, solid, _safe_ , pressing their bodies chest to back. They fit together seamlessly, and Will closed his eyes, centering on _him_ , drawing from his strength. When Hannibal brushed his lips against his ear, he gasped for a different reason. It was elation. It was his being saved, his coming to God, and he felt _free_.

"I'm here, Will."

Will turned to liquid against him, and Hannibal held him close, a hand slipping down his side, gentle, erotic, to rest on his hip. His other brushed against his skin, fingers ghosting over his knife-wielding arm, the delicate bones in his wrist, and the top of his hand. Hannibal closed his fingers around his, the knife, and Will finally found his center, his balance, and the very reason he was still alive. This was all they were meant to be.

Hannibal drew a line along his neck with his lips, nuzzling him, up to the shell of his ear. His inhale, exhale, whispered across his throat, almost erratically, as if he were in the throes of sex. Will took in a breath that was easy and titillated, and Hannibal jerked him in closer with _need_.

"Open your eyes."

Will did. The man stared at them wide-eyed, his muffled screams intensifying. Together, they inched the knife forward, sliding it little by little into his chest. Blood oozed from the wound, spilling down, dripping onto the floor. The screams disappeared as Will tuned in to the rise and fall of Hannibal's chest, to the way his body tensed up in pure _bliss_. Hannibal pressed his face into his neck, and Will leaned into him, closing his eyes. Complete.

The act of killing _together_... It was a release of the purest form and beautiful in every sense of the word. With Hannibal, he felt seen, understood, and that addiction, that rare, _raw_ connection... 

Hannibal was there, in front of him, pulling him in by the neck. Pressed close, chest to chest, they stood there, foreheads touching, and relished in their shared bliss as a man died at their feet.

He never saw an oyster on his plate again.


	4. Depression

_Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars._ —Khalil Gibran

He'd lost a part of himself that night. The goodness inside him died when Frank Arlon took his last breath. He couldn't escape himself. He couldn't escape Hannibal—and it was destroying him.

His humanity began to suffocate over the next few weeks, taking shallow, dying breaths. With its dwindling vitality, he spiraled down, down inside himself without the hope of surfacing. He lost track of time, didn't eat or sleep. When Hannibal came in to check on him, he didn't talk much, just stared at the wall and interacted enough to keep himself off the dinner menu. He stayed in the same spot on his bed and all he did was think.

About how much he loved to watch someone's life slip away, the feel of blood on his hands, of Hannibal's touch on his skin. When he saw Hannibal, his heart raced, skipping in his chest, as if Hannibal was the only thing in his life that made sense. It sickened him, excited him all at once. Will craved the sight of him, then admonished himself for it. When Hannibal coaxed him to sit up, brushing back his sweat-slicked hair, _touching him_ , he rejoiced then buried that much further inside himself. 

During those weeks, the dreams started up again. He dreamt of killing Hannibal first with Chiyoh's rifle, but those quickly died down as the days went on. They began shifting, focusing more and more on ending himself. He'd kill Hannibal, then turn the gun on himself. As his condition worsened, his dreams centered solely on suicide. Shooting himself in the head, slitting his throat, cutting his wrists until his dreamscape was filled with blood and more blood.

Then, during the day, when he was wide awake, he thought about how Hannibal could find him dead—when, where, and how. Hanging from one of the rafter beams in the living room. Cutting his femoral artery and staining Hannibal's beautiful floors. But those seemed so... banal. Ways he'd turn himself into a death tableau flitted through his head during breakfast. He thought about cutting out his heart and leaving it on Hannibal's perfect bedspread. Or, day by day, leaving little chunks of himself across the cabin.

Hannibal diluted his suicidal urges by tending to him every day, morning, evening, and night. He tried to get him to eat little things at first. Berries he'd found himself or a small appetizer of cooked kidneys Will had refused to eat because they were human—he could tell the difference. One day, Hannibal left the cabin, and Will almost lost his mind, cast out to sea without his anchor. Hannibal came home and found him in the tub with a razor blade poised and ready. Once Will was fed and tucked in bed, Hannibal sat next to him, wine in hand, and stood watch.

He'd never slept so well before that night.

Hannibal slowly brought him out of himself by talking to him and asking him existential questions. He engaged him in verbal play and gave him topics to mull over. Throughout the day, Hannibal would touch him just to ground him to reality; a hand at the small of his back, fingers brushing over his skin. They didn't kill anyone the entire time he'd been a wounded bird—and Hannibal never crushed him.

The day had come to take off his cast. Hannibal sat him down in the living room and removed it, exposing raw skin to cold air. The way his leg itched had him focusing on something other than his mental state, and when he bared nails to scratch, Hannibal grasped his wrist gently. He'd relieve him in other ways, something Will read in his eyes, and grabbed a bottle, whose liquid smelled light, sweet, and almost peppery. 

On his knees, Hannibal massaged his feet, rubbing the oil into his sensitive skin. His long fingers ran over his ankle, up his calf, to his thigh. Will concentrated on his touch, his warmth, gave into it and let his head fall back. A little groan escaped his lips, and Hannibal massaged harder until it almost hurt, which only excited him even more. Pain was his aphrodisiac, his drug, because pain was better than suffering in his own mind—and the promise of it was seductive.

When Will whispered _please_ , Hannibal gave him what he wanted, massaging his muscles with tight, brutal fingers, putting pressure on fragile bones. Adrenaline shot through his veins, and it was that drug, the excitement, and Hannibal on his knees that had him lunging forward. He grabbed Hannibal by the neck and drew him in, their lips a hair's breadth away, lost in suspended animation. In that moment, Will wanted to kiss him, but settled for something else instead. He brushed the hair out of Hannibal's face, fingers whispering across his skin. Hannibal looked into his eyes and gave him a small smile.

That's when he knew he was tired of fighting, and when his humanity let out its final gasp.


	5. Acceptance

_This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us._ —Hannibal

Killing became easier. Hannibal subjected himself to the last whisper of his humanity by bringing home murderers and child molesters. People that were better off dead than alive. After two months, he'd convinced himself they were doing the world a service. They were good in doing something despicable, something ugly. The devil's side of him was blissful, and his humanity fought back by giving him nightmares of everyone he'd killed.

In those two months, the news broke with a new type of monster. Someone was ravaging the gentle people of Vermont, pinpointing young women, assaulting them while killing them slowly, so they knew they were being killed. Together, they profiled and planned. Investigated. _Hunted_. He was James Jessup, and they found him on the outskirts of Montpelier, watching a young woman through her bedroom window as she dressed. They saved her life that night. 

There would be no salvation for James.

Hannibal dumped him unceremoniously on the cabin's beautiful hardwood floor. Then made a distasteful sound and toed him off the handspun rug. The drug they'd stuck him with would wear off soon, and Jessup would be awake, _aware_ , so _he_ knew he was being killed. 

Will grit his teeth. The wait was killing him, _not killing_ was killing him. It'd been weeks, and he needed his fix. Hannibal—beautiful, loyal Hannibal—put a knife in his hand so he could concentrate on its weight, the feel of it wrapped in his fingers. It grounded him, and so did Hannibal's touch; a gentle hand on his shoulder to keep him from pacing like a starving animal.

Will gripped the knife harder when Jessup stirred, woke up—and struck first.

Despite his leg being completely healed, Will simply wasn't quick enough. The blade sliced his shin like a steak knife through meat, and Will cried out with the pain. Cried out in _frustration_ when Jessup fled through the open door like he hadn't been drugged at all. Will threw Hannibal a glare, and Hannibal gave him a smile that was more devious than apologetic. With the knife, not drugging him enough, Hannibal had given Jessup a fighting chance. 

It was more fun that way.

Like a shark that'd smelled blood, Will got up for the chase, but didn't make it a single step. Hannibal gripped his shoulder tight, and Will gave him yet another glare. "He's getting away," he spat out.

"Let him run."

Then Hannibal smiled a horrible, bloodthirsty thing that sent a shiver down his spine. Will knew then that they were giving him... a head start, and that soon, they'd be going after him. And that's what they did. After a generous three minutes, they headed off into the woods, each taking a separate path. Meeting Jessup in a small glade, on either side of him. He'd stopped to take a breath, panting, leaning against a tree—and like a pack of wolves, they descended on him. Will struck with a heavy-fisted blow to his kidney, and Jessup fell forward, gasping for air. Hannibal stabbed at his shoulder, quick, sure, then tore the blade from his flesh. Blood arced across his crisp white shirt, and the sight of it, the smell of blood in the air, sent Will in for the kill.

And again, Hannibal stopped him.

"'Thou suffering thing, know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy...'"

"You're reciting poetry now?"

Hannibal slipped him a deadly glance. "Have you no appreciation for poetry, Will?"

"There is a time and a place for poetry, Hannibal," he snipped. "Now is not the time."

Hannibal smiled at his exasperated tone, and they watched Jessup scrabble at the ground. He'd made so many women suffer, and it was _poetic_ to let him bleed slowly. But Will became increasingly more... needy. Whether Hannibal was teaching him a lesson in patience, or denying his release, Will needed this to end. He acted on that need, lunging like a dog out of control, and Hannibal yanked him close. They stood face to face, inches from each other, and his warmth centered him, but the need to kill... it was still _there_. He was losing control.

"Patience, Will."

Will trembled in their little space, with the anticipation, with the overwhelming want to spill blood, and Hannibal cupped his cheek, sweeping a thumb across his skin. 

"I need you to let me kill him," Will whispered against his lips. "Please."

The expression on Hannibal's face... it was unreadable granite like always, but like always, his eyes gave him away. They spoke of nourishment at Will's touch, and while Hannibal didn't lean into it like Will often did, keeping himself composed, Hannibal was moved to speechlessness—but not moved enough to make things easy. Hannibal tossed Jessup his knife without ever taking his eyes off Will. 

Betrayal never hurt so much.

Except right then. Betrayal ripped into the back of his thigh, nearly bringing him down. Will didn't have time to assess the damage before Jessup was up, on his feet, closing in behind him. Will abandoned Hannibal and turned, limping, and faced off with Jessup while Hannibal... did nothing. If Hannibal had a glass of wine, he'd sip it.

Jessup lunged, and Will, despite his newest injury, stepped back out of the blade's arc. Then, quick, devastating, Will darted in, knife leading, and stung Jessup in the chest. The blade sunk in deep, and Will turned it as he ripped it out, making a serious wound deadly. Staggering, Jessup made another attempt and missed, opening up his body for yet another attack—a jab at his stomach, then at lightning speed, another at the inside of his thigh. Jessup fell over, crying out in pain, and Will silenced him by cutting his throat.

Then, Will turned on Hannibal.

He clutched the blade tight and leveled him with a look. It said everything— _I love you, I hate you_ —and Hannibal simply stood there, unfazed. Unfazed yet completely... enraptured. Staring at him as if Will were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. _Affected_ by the way he'd killed. Will wanted to go to him, revel in his bliss with Hannibal's arms around him—and he _did_ go to him, with a knife jab meant for his throat.

As easy as bleeding, Hannibal caught his arm, turned him, and slammed him back-first into the nearest tree. It knocked the wind out of him, the knife out of his hand, and Hannibal was there, pressing his body to his own. Will gasped for air, struggling against him, but Hannibal was an unmovable force, keeping him still, calm... thrumming with adrenaline. It pulsed under his skin, his heart punching at his throat. He felt heady, and by the time he'd caught his breath, his brain had decided to zero in on... something else. The friction Hannibal had created between them, the smell of him, classic and elegant, the _red_ of the blood on his shirt... 

Subconsciously, his body had traded in violence for sex long before Will realized he was kissing him.

Their mouths were crushed together when everything finally clicked. He could've pulled away, scandalized, but didn't. Couldn't because it felt too good to deny. Hannibal cupped his face, and their kiss became more savage, harder, like they were making up for lost time. Will speared his tongue past Hannibal's lips, searching his mouth with a passion he didn't know he had—and Hannibal let him. Hannibal opened up in surrender, and that alone, just a whisper of submissiveness, had Will brushing fingers against Hannibal's stomach, then lower...

Will was on his hands and knees before he could think.

The pain in his thigh, it hurt, but didn't matter when Hannibal settled in behind him. They were flush together then, with Hannibal's hips pressed against his backside, and nothing else felt more _right_. Instead of questioning sexuality and labels, Will gave himself to Hannibal, letting him bare him to the world. The night air kissed his naked skin, and Hannibal's heat against him, over him, all around him, leveled him to the ground. Will pressed his face into the dirt, spread his legs, angled his hips back—sacrificing himself like the lamb he was. After spitting in his hand, Hannibal took him, shoving inside him, splitting him open. It wasn't romantic or gentle, but savage. It opened him up to pain, more than he could handle, and Will whimpered. For once, Hannibal didn't soothe him.

Not at first. So centered on all of his pain, Will hadn't noticed Hannibal was kissing the knob of his spine, sliding his fingers up and down his sides softly, gently, so he could feel something else. Will concentrated on that, the tender sweetness, the peppered kisses across his skin, Hannibal's fingers running through his hair. Hannibal hadn't moved since the initial thrust, allowing Will's body to adjust to the intrusion. And when it did, when Will let out a needy whine instead of a hiss of pain, when pain gave away to pleasure and need, Hannibal _moved_. 

He took him until Will groaned and scrabbled at the ground in pure _bliss_. The fingers in his hair, gentle, loving, curled and pulled, and Will let out a noise that was both euphoric and filthy. Their pace shifted then, from soft and slow to harder, faster. Hannibal pushed every exhale out of Will's body with his thrusts, and Will didn't know if he'd be able to breathe without him. Not again. Not without this; them, killing together, and now, being together. The thought of that, of Hannibal inside him, fitting like he should've always been there, meant to be, had Will gasping with an orgasm that ripped him apart. Behind him, Hannibal let out a small noise of his own, always under control, then folded over him, spent, panting at the shell of his ear. Will reached back and slid his fingers through Hannibal's hair, then leaned his head against his. He knew he'd never recover from what he'd— _they'd_ —become.

—and he didn't want to.


	6. Epilogue

Through her drugged haze, Bedelia stared at her leg, roasted and served, displayed as a centerpiece on a platter. It looked... strangely beautiful, with flowers and fruit, with ti leaves like a crown. It would undoubtedly taste... exquisite. She wondered how he'd serve it to her, if he'd let her sample herself... if she'd be restricted only to the plate of oysters that sat in front of her... 

Bedelia smiled, a haunted thing. She should've left when she had the chance.

With trembling fingers, she grabbed the fork from her plate and held it in her lap. She'd take whatever part of him she could before this was all over. That was her plan, and as quickly as it was decided, it was over when a rough hand grabbed her wrist, fingers a crushing vice. The cheek pressed to hers was warm, but the words— _his_ words—were cold. 

"That's ill-advised."

The fork's tines bit at her neck then, pressed hard enough to draw blood. Hannibal had always been... gentle. Almost kind in his perversity. This... uncontrolled violence, this disregard of composure and elegance—it wasn't like him...

Like the devil, Hannibal bled from of the shadows, at the opposite end of the table. He smiled.

Her jaw fell open. The man at her neck— "Will?"

"Hello, Bedelia." He smiled against her skin. "Are you hungry?"


End file.
